


Memento Mori

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Bar Hopping, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Drinking, Gen, Kinktober 2019, Knife Play, Post-Canon, Post-Canon - Aged Up Characters, The Summary Sounds Angsty But It's Really Not, There Are Knives But No One Is Harmed And Everyone Lives, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 16:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20877110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Drinking is like a lighting a match, but drinking alone is like letting it burn.As a storm brews in his mind, Yahaba stumbles upon an old rival.





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 2 - Prompt: Knife Play

Music pulses. Alcohol warms his throat, cooling his body. As Yahaba dances, the lyrics fade into movement, the music a background noise buzzing through his veins.

Getting Kyoutani to come out with them was a monumental victory, but he’s still the first to leave.

Lights flash above him like a beating heart. When Watari suggests they bar hop, Yahaba laughs too easily. “Let’s go!” The words roll off his tongue, and he grabs his hand to lead him to the exit.

Outside, they hail a cab and let the driver pick their destination. “They’re doing a special,” Watari says. “I came here, uh...” he trails off. Unable to remember the metrics of time, he continues, “Um, a while ago. They did an ocean theme!”

Streetlights blur like raindrops through the car windows. Yahaba sips his water. “Ocean?”

“Yeah, yeah. They gave out flowers and beads. I had this pineapple cocktail, bro. Bro, it was so good.” Watari sighs.

Yahaba laughs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “That’s a Hawaiian theme.”

The foreign words tangle on Watari’s tongue, and he throws back his head in laughter.

The driver mumbles some kind of recommendation for a fancy mixed drink as the cab rolls to a stop. Yahaba walks normally, but the sidewalk sways beneath his feet, an ocean hidden just below.

Here, the music plays louder. Broken lyrics circle around them as the dancers sing, voices off key. A waitress wraps him in a scarf that isn’t Hawaiian. Ordering two shots that shouldn’t be mixed together, Yahaba stops worrying about it. Seven shots later, he lets the music carry him from his thoughts.

Watari does the electric slide to a song that does not call for the electric slide. “Where to next?”

“Anywhere.” His head feels light, his stomach uneasy. “I want chicken tenders.”

The bartender gives him a shot for the road, followed by six more, and the cab ride to the next bar smears into a smudge on his memory.

Watari trades out his electric slide for jazz hands and moon walking. Yahaba executes an improper ballot twirl and falls into his arms, giggling.

Watari smiles, but his words hit like a double shot of Jägermeister. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah.”

“I gotta get home.” He nods his head towards the door. “Wanna split a cab?”

No. He doesn’t want to leave yet. The time can get as late as it wants, so long as tomorrow doesn’t come. His mind floats like a ship at sea, but he knows that the moment he leaves and his hangover dissipates, he’ll be back at work, back to the stress and frustration and the empty house that tastes of loneliness and untold secrets from bad days and long nights.

“Yahaba?”

“You go.” He waves Watari off. “I gotta get my chicken tenders,” he says, but the words slur into “mitten slenders.”

Watari deadpans, his eyes shining with a clarity Yahaba can’t help but envy. “Yahaba.” It’s the unofficial-vice-captain voice, a weapon cultivated from years of Iwaizumi’s leadership and training.

Yahaba isn’t giving in easily, not this time. He twirls Watari around to a song he doesn’t know yet has heard a thousand times. “But my tenders,” he whines, putting every bit of Oikawa’s antics into the syllables until they overflow, and Watari sighs.

“Alright. Don’t spin, don’t spin.” He breaks free of Yahaba’s grip, holding his head. “But call me when you get home, okay? I’ll send Kyoutani if I don’t hear from you.”

Mumbling a convincing promise, he watches Watari leave.

The music fades, not into soothing background noise, but into a haunting wail. Yahaba dances with someone who doesn’t appreciate out-of-date dance moves. His stomach feels heavy, his movements out of balance. When he walks, it’s like sinking through water.

Watching the world sway around him, he remembers how lonely it is to drink alone.

His hopes dash against the rocks when the bartender says, “We don’t serve chicken.”

Yahaba slumps in his chair. “I don’t have enough money for chicken nuggets.”

The bartender offers him a consolation water bottle.

He should have split the cab.

Nursing his water, Yahaba lets the club wash over him. Beneath the smell of booze and sweat, he can pick out the faint traces of nachos and cigarette smoke. The lights turn his hands pink, blue, green. Cold wraps him like a blanket. Ahead, the bartender flips a bottle like an expert; an American had wandered in, providing an incentive to show off for tips.

Something taps, soft yet fast.

Yahaba’s gaze drifts to the far side of the bar. It was designed with a haphazard oval-shape in mind, a gap in one side for the staff to enter and exit through. With the American garnering attention, the opposite side empties out, until only one person remains. Something shines.

Yahaba hops from one seat to the next, trying to be discreet as he gets closer.

The object flashes again, colored purple by the overhead lights. He twirls it around, and Yahaba makes out the black handle and the long blade of a steak knife.

Yahaba gasps. “They serve steak but not chicken?”

The boy turns and glances at Yahaba, ending his game of being discreet. Thoroughly caught, Yahaba walks over and takes the seat next to him.

Twirling the knife again, he stabs the counter with quick jabs between his outspread fingers. Yahaba watches the blade glint against the faux marble, moving closer and closer to his hand, yet never cutting skin.

“So cool.” Yahaba leans his head in his palm to watch. “Bet a chicken knife would be cooler.”

“That’s not a thing,” he says. Throwing the knife into the air, he catches it with his other hand and resumes his stabbing, this time around the fingers of his right hand.

“I wanna try,” Yahaba says. Watching the blade move rhythmically makes him tired, and his fingers itch to try for himself.

The boy’s gaze slides over Yahaba, slow and warm, like a tall shot of whiskey. “You’re too drunk,” he decides, looking away. “Not that you’d be good sober.”

“I,” Yahaba announces, pressing a hand to his chest, “am a great sober.”

He makes a noise that sounds almost like a chuckle, but he covers his mouth before Yahaba can be sure. “Shouldn’t you be with your team?” he asks around his fingers.

Yahaba stares. They’re nice hands. His fingers are long, a little bruised at the joints. Yahaba hopes it’s not from the knife. Tearing his gaze away, he finds him still waiting for an answer. “Huh?”

“Your team,” he says. Sighing, he glances around as if he can find them himself. “You didn’t come here alone, right?”

Alone. That word again. Yahaba reaches for his drink, but he doesn’t have one with him. He tries to signal a bar tender. Busy topping off beers, they don’t notice.

Like weak magnets, Yahaba’s thoughts click together, slow but firm. He squints at the boy. “How’d’ja know I’m on a team,” he asks, but the words slur into “on a tree.”

Yahaba leans in closer, and he pushes him back with the knife handle. “You’re from Seijoh,” he says. “The setter.”

Yahaba blinks. “Does that mean I get the knife?”

“No.”

Yahaba watches him resume his stabbing game. “Oikawa-san was setter before me.”

“I know.”

“He was really good.”

“I know.”

“He had this jump serve.” Yahaba holds up his hands, but the gesture looks nothing like a jump serve. “I always thought he’d beat Ushijima with it.”

The boy snorts. “As if.”

“He could of have... could of...” Yahaba frowns. “Could...”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Flagging down a waitress, he asks for a water and hands the bottle to Yahaba.

“Oh, Kenjirou!” A sing-song voice cuts through the clink of glasses and the buzzing music. A man appears, hair wild and red. He drapes himself across the counter and pokes the boy’s cheek. “Are you ready to stop sulking? Taichi said you like this song.”

He smacks his hand away. “I don’t.”

“Dance anyway.” He grins.

“I’ll dance,” Yahaba offers. He reaches to grab his belongings, but finding nothing to grab, he presses his hands against the counter, savoring the cold feeling spreading across his skin. “Can I touch your hair?”

“Yes—”

“No,” the boy interrupts. “It’s full of gel and sin.”

“Kenjirou, you flatter me.”

He glares at him. “I’m going home now.”

“You’re no fun.” With that, he saunters off. Yahaba mourns his lost opportunity to touch the fiery red hair.

“First no chicken tenders, now this.” Yahaba sighs.

“If you want chicken so bad, go down the street.” The boy stands and hands the knife to a passing waiter. “There’s restaurants all over.”

Yahaba looks up at him, hopes rising. “We’re getting chicken?”

“No. You are.”

“Heck yeah,” he cheers. “What’ll you get?”

“No. I will not be getting anything.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are going alone.”

“Oh. Right.” His hopes plummet, and he wobbles to his feet. “Yeah. I’ll do that.” Yahaba’s legs feel steady, but he holds out his arms for balance. The bar dips and thrashes beneath his feet.

A restaurant is better than drinking alone, he supposes. His mind doesn’t let him think about it very hard. Accepting defeat and heading home tastes just as bitter as the bile threatening to climb up his throat. Weaving past the dancers who once seemed so welcoming, he stumbles through the door.

“Stairs,” Yahaba mumbles. Why would they put stairs outside a place full of drunk people? He grips the handrail, going down one step at a time.

His foot slips.

A hand slides beneath his elbow, halting his fall. Looking behind him, he finds the boy from the bar.

“You’re pathetic.” He helps Yahaba down the rest of the stairs with a gentle hand around his waist.

“You’re a jerk,” Yahaba says. “McJerkface Kenjirou.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Rotten-Mouth Kenjirou.”

“Not that either. My name is Shirabu.”

“Shiro?” Yahaba starts walking, but a hand yanks him back.

“Shirabu. That’s the wrong direction.” He pulls Yahaba the other way, falling into step beside him.

“Shiro-bu?” Yahaba tests the name out.

“No. Shirabu,” he sounds it out slowly.

Recognition clicks in Yahaba’s head. “Shirabu. I knew a Shirabu in high school.”

Shirabu shoves his hands in his pockets. “Gee, what a bloody coincidence.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yahaba nods. “He played for Shira... Shiratori...”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Opening the door to a waffle house, he motions for Yahaba to step inside.

Yahaba frowns. “I want chicken. Not waffles.”

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “I know.”

“Chicken,” Yahaba says. It comes out as both a demand and an insult, and he laughs.

Shirabu looks down the road as if contemplating abandoning Yahaba before he gives a long sigh. “They have chicken _and_ waffles.”

Yahaba’s eyes light up, mouth going slack. Shirabu takes that as his chance to shove Yahaba through the door. Fluorescent lights extend an inviting greeting, and Shirabu leads him to a table near the window, mumbling to the waitress as they pass by her.

“Give me your phone.” Shirabu sits across from him, holding out an expectant hand.

Yahaba’s eyes narrow. “Why?” He picks up a specials menu and points it at him.

“So I can call someone to come get your sorry butt.” Shirabu takes the menu.

Glaring, Yahaba pulls out his phone and dials. The phone rings. When no one picks up, he tries again.

“I hate you,” Kyoutani growls in greeting.

“Hey, designated driver.”

“Screw you.”

Shirabu pulls the phone out of Yahaba’s hand. “Hello? You can come pick him up.”

He gives out an address, but Yahaba’s gaze drifts to the heavenly smell coming towards him. The waitress sets down his plate and a mug of steaming coffee.

Yahaba gasps. “Chicken _and_ waffles.”

Shirabu hangs up the phone. “He’ll be here soon. He—Are... are you crying?”

“No.” Yahaba rubs his eyes with his sleeve and sniffles.

Awkwardly, Shirabu toys with his knife, spinning it around in his hand. Checking that the waitress is out of sight, he spreads his fingers out on the table and starts stabbing around them, movements fast and confident.

Yahaba munches on his chicken. “You’re the best Shirabu I ever met.”

“I’m the only Shirabu you’ve met.”

“The other Shirabu,” Yahaba continues, “was so mean.”

He deadpans. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Yahaba pours syrup on his waffles. With food in his belly, his stomach feels calmer, like a storm ebbing away. “But that guy, that guy was so”—Yahaba waves his fork around.

“Mean?”

“Yes!” Yahaba bites off a corner of waffle. “Mean and smug. He had this setter dump. It was so beautiful. I hated him.”

The knife stops moving.

“He was weird, ya know? Do you watch volleyball?” At Shirabu’s hesitant nod, he continues, “You couldn’t learn a thing from watching him. No emotions. I want no emotions.”

Yahaba yawns. Sleep is coming for him and with it, the overwhelming threat of tomorrow. He chews thoughtfully on his chicken. Closing his eyes, he thinks of a high school Shirabu. His hair was shorter than the Shirabu before him with his bangs combed out of his face like some kind of businessman.

But his eyes...

“He set like no one else,” Yahaba says.

“Right.” Shirabu stabs around his fingers, slower than before. It encourages Yahaba to continue, somehow.

“Yeah.” And the two are similar, he realizes. Shirabu’s setting, so precise and coordinated, like a knife slicing through the air, landing only where he intended. “His third year—we played him twice. Well, not me. I played once. Oikawa played twice. I played once. I was a reserve setter,” he says, but the words slur into “deserved better.”

“You did,” Shirabu mumbles.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” Yahaba takes a bite of both chicken and waffle, and heaven explodes across his tongue. “Mhm that’s good. Can I live here?”

Shirabu shrugs.

“Anyway.” Yahaba waves his fork. “Anyway, he was much better then. More confident. It looked good on him.” He looks up, meeting Shirabu’s gaze. “You... remind me of him.”

Shirabu blinks.

“Can I do the knife thing now?”

Shirabu’s mouth opens, forming the word “no,” but then his lips press together, his eyes crinkling. He bites down on a smile that turns into chuckling. Dropping the knife, he covers his face, laughing harder.

Yahaba feels like he missed an important joke. Tilting his head, face torn between a smile and frown, he asks, “Is that a yes?”

Shirabu lowers his hands until just his mouth is hidden, and Yahaba wonders if there’s a smile tucked away behind those fingers. He stands suddenly.

“Uh...” Yahaba watches him walk away.

Looking down at his plate, he thinks the ratio of chicken to waffle is a little skewed. Not enough chicken. Not enough waffle. Math without logic. After a moment, he realizes the plate is empty.

A plastic knife lands in front of him.

Yahaba looks up just as Shirabu slides into the booth next to him. “Here.” He curls Yahaba’s fingers around the knife. “Practice with this.”

Yahaba nods gravely. This is a serious game. He moves the knife, immediately stabbing his finger with the plastic.

Shirabu purses his lips. “You’re worse than I thought.”

“Shut up.”

Yahaba tries again. His grip slips, and the knife stabs the table far, far away from his hand. Yahaba frowns.

“Here.” Shirabu closes his hand around Yahaba’s, helping him move the knife. “Like this.”

Yahaba yawns, eyes threatening to shut. “What’s it called?”

“Stabscotch.”

“Stab...” The foreign word tickles his tongue.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Shirabu chides.

“Then you say it.”

“Stabscotch,” Shirabu says. “Stab, like the action.” Yahaba watches the blade hit slow and careful between each of his outstretched fingers. “Scotch, like the alcohol.” His breath warms Yahaba’s shoulder, and this is the warmest he’s ever felt after a night out with the boys.

“You really are pathetic,” Shirabu mumbles.

Eyes closing, Yahaba barely notices Shirabu move or the approaching footsteps.

Two people speak. The knife is taken from his hand. Arms lift him up. As sleep slowly claims him, a soft voice whispers, “Goodnight, Yahaba-san.”

It sounds a lot like high school.


End file.
